


Needle Pains

by Aryas_aria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 10:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aryas_aria/pseuds/Aryas_aria
Summary: "He cannot look at a needle without thinking of Arya."





	Needle Pains

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of Jonryatrash on tumblr's ask/answer of Jonrya head canons #7

Simply put, Jon is in agony. Day in and day out, it’s the same thing over and over again—prepare for winter, prepare for war, miss Arya. He wonders where she is right now, if she even _is_ right now. _She has to be, I feel her, feel Nymeria through Ghost just as I felt Summer and Shaggy when news reached of their deaths_. And yet—when Lady died, Sansa remained, what then if Arya has died but Nymeria remains?

He won’t allow his mind to go there, can’t allow his mind to go there, elsewise the Others won’t be the most terrifying thing in Westeros, nor will Cersei Lannister. Suddenly, he remembers killing Ramsey Bolton. It had been so sweet to make the bastard pay. A sword would have been too quick, and even Stannis did not begrudge him his vengeance, though in truth, the “king” was already on the brink of death by the time they had won the battle. For days, he’d let Ramsey Bolton rot in the dungeons as he restored Winterfell to order, all while thinking of the best way to make him suffer. The answer had been quite simple in hindsight—flay him. It had been gruesome work, but every cut had been music to Jon’s ears, so melodious were Ramsey’s screams. “ _Do you want your bride back now?”_ Jon had taunted as the scalpel scraped away every essence of the man, bit by bit. Oh how he had relished the feel of biting into the man through Ghost’s skin, tearing him quite literally limb from limb for deceiving him into think Jeyne was Arya.

“Jaehaerys,” a feminine voice calls to him softly, pulling him back into the present.

He turns away from the flames to find himself once more in the Lord’s Solar, Bran’s solar now. Sansa had been first to return, news of his great victory spurring her home, then Rickon, followed by a lost but still dutiful Ser Davos in the face of his own king’s death, then Bran had come, strange and powerful with eyes that knew too much, a mouth that spoke truths long kept secret.

“Your Grace?” He says to acknowledge his aunt, a courtesy, and one distinctly felt by every person in the room. They all know the throne is Jon’s, even Dany. He knows it’s equal parts fear for her position and fanciful love that have her purple eyes constantly looking to him with longing.

“Perhaps we should adjourn for the evening,” she says, a tight lipped smile gracing her beautiful features. He can’t help but think of a little girl biting her lip just now and he aches. “It appears his grace is distracted.” Her word is still law, only able to be overruled by his own in their delicate power dynamics, and so, one by one, the lords and battle commanders filter out of the solar until it is just him and the last of the Starks. _No_ , his mind thinks, _Arya is out there somewhere_.

“I must confess,” Sansa begins airily once the door is shut, “I have little love for your aunt,” she wrinkles her nose at the word, “but it is perhaps the safest course of action for you to marry her once all of this is over, Jon. Please consider it. Once the dead are dealt with, it’d be easier to defeat Cersei if we are not fighting amongst ourselves.” She picks up some embroidery project or another, electing to come sit by him and the fireplace.

“Must you speak of marriages again, Sansa?” Rickon asks exasperatedly.

“Lyanna Mormont is a good match for you Rickon! For heaven sakes, I’m not saying you need marry her tomorrow, but you have a responsibility to carry on the Stark line. And the gods know mother left more than a fair share of Tully in us. Her dark hair and dark eyes would do wonders in helping—“

“She doesn’t have grey eyes,” Jon says abruptly. So abrupt in fact, that it startles Sansa into dropping everything at her side. He bends down to help retrieve her fallen items when it happens, just a gentle prick, almost imperceptible. Rising up to his full height again, he almost chokes as he pulls a long, thin needle from his index finger, a drop of blood welling up where it had just been.

_Stick them with the pointy end._

He lets out a half groan, half sigh so heart wrenching that it has Rickon and Sansa both crowding around him in seconds. He has to assure them he’s fine at least a half dozen times. Bran doesn’t ask him about it, blue eyes knowing all too well the reason for his cry. _I miss her_ , Jon’s mind shouts at the scrutiny in Bran’s gaze, _I am not stone._

Before he leaves for his bedchamber, Bran says only one thing to him. “The gods have fashioned us for love, Jon. I do not condemn you, no matter what others may think.”

Jon keeps his back turned, but smiles as relief graces his features. He knows Bran sees his smile, Bran sees everything else, after all.

***

He’s riding a horse, rather he’s racing a horse. He knows it is a dream by the way the summer snow and sun illuminate the wolfswood. Or is it a memory? He can’t bring himself to care when a childishly round face and grey eyes stare back at him from atop her own horse. “You’ll never catch me!” She taunts, the laughter on her lips so sweet to his own ears. She beats him, he wasn’t even trying to lose, but he does not mind. Her happiness has always been the most important thing.

He tosses in his bed, the image of Arya on horseback dissolving and he groans at the loss.

His mind is filled with a different place now—his old room. He’s shirtless, lying in bed pouting about something or another when his door opens and a blur scampers on top of him. He feels a little prick at his ribs, so light but still a little biting. He looks down to see Arya with tears in her eyes, clutching her embroidery in one hand and a sewing needle in another. “Arya Horseface can’t do anything right,” she cries frustrated, “my stitches are crooked again.”

He whines in his sleep, unable to bear the memory of her sorrow for much longer. _Show me something else, show me where she is now, lead me to her_ he begs in his dreams, to the Old Gods beyond count that have already done so much. _Give me Arya and swear I will be your servant from this day until my last days._ Obligingly, blessedly, the dream changes again.

They’re in the glass gardens, alone save for the servants tending the soil and the plants. But Jon and Arya are so far away from everyone else that they might as well be a world apart. “These are my favorite,” she says as they stop in front of the winter roses, just now beginning to bloom.

“I know little sister,” he says affectionately, for he truly does know. Every time they bloom, she demands that he take there to see it first hand, and she has instructed the servants to let them know the moment it happens.

“Have you ever seen anything so beautiful,” she asks, childish excitement seeping into her little voice.

She is eight years old, himself a boy of twelve. He knows that Sansa and her friends are cruel to Arya, and he’s long since figured out that he’d do or say anything to make her smile. Still, it is no lie when he looks straight at her and answers simply, “yes.” He plucks a rose from the thorns, delicately placing it into her already tangled hair. The blush that graces her cheeks is far more satisfying to him than any bloom a rose might ever have to offer.

***

The sun has long since stopped coming out, night is all that reigns now. Winterfell has been bustling with activity for months now, armies from every part of the seven kingdoms coming from all over to take a stand. And he is the one that leads them. Before, men had whispered of his dark and fearsome nature, now they welcome it. It seems they need a monster to defeat a monster.

He feels the hot breath of Rhaegal on the back of his neck as he and Dany survey the Dothraki screamers make their fiery run towards the night king’s army. He sees their fire go out, slips into Ghost’s skin, relieved to know that his wolf is unchanged if not unscathed from the rush attack.

Everything is a blur after that. The battle rages all around him—in the skies and down below. It is the one time his thoughts turn to Arya and he does not regret that she is not here with him now. _At least she is not here to see this._

When Viserion and Rhaegal crash to ground, their mouths entwined in deadly embraces on each other’s necks, he knows that he should be praying to the Old gods to save him, save the people somehow should he die, but he doesn’t. _Please protect her_ he thinks as he drops down to the icy battleground.

It isn’t the end though, and he gets up, for humanity, for his family, for Arya wherever she might be. He stares into death’s face for a terrifying moment before the Night King raises the fallen up to combat him. A glance for help shows him that Dany is preoccupied, assisting a dying Rhaegal make sure to take Viserion with him. He will get no help from her.

He draws his sword. _Stick them with the pointy end._ He never gets the chance. A chorus of howls fills the night; it is the second sweetest sound he has ever heard. The dead surrounding him are no match for the wolves defending him, and soon he is on his way to find the Night King and end this once and for all. His steps take him to the Godswood, a look to his left and Ghost is by his side, a look right and he sees honey golden eyes staring back at him, sparkling. They make him want to cry, for Arya is here with him, even now, he knows it by the shadow that crosses over the wolf’s stare. He gives Nymeria’s head a firm caress. “You’ve always been a good girl,” he says to her.

To his surprise, other men join his pack of wolves as they go to Bran. It is carnage again, but he has eyes only for the Night King. The battle is nothing like he’s ever experienced, but he doesn’t want to die, actually rejoices at the twist of fate that brought him back to life. Nymeria is here, and Arya is out there somewhere, he cannot possibly die _now_. So the Night King must, and he does.

Moments of unbelief slowly tick by as the army of the dead turn into ice. Again, the quiet does not last. He registers immediately what is happening when a Lannister soldier turns on him, then others do the same. But his arms feel like lead, and they are so slow, too slow for the man following Cersei Lannister’s commands. Betrayed, he has been betrayed again. Only this time, there is no reason for him to be resurrected. When he gets stabbed the second time, he remarks how different it feels from the first time. It is so light, so unpainful that it might as well be a needle pricking him, not a sword. He laughs hysterically at the irony before it all goes black.

***

A few times, he wakes in a state of delirium. He registers voices and faces—none that he wants to hear or see—and he watches sluggishly as a woman clumsily stitches his wounds. She’s doing it so fast and erratic that it almost tickles, the way the needle pricks his skin with no rhyme or rhythm. “Your stitches are crooked,” he mumbles through a mouth full of lead. The knowledge of what he just said makes him cry out in distress, but it is not from the pain like everyone thinks. He feels a few drops of bitter liquid slide down his throat as he thrashes before everything goes blissfully black again.

***

It is weeks of many fits of rage and misery later when he feels a warmth coming from the open window in his room. Cracking his eye open, it is strange to see the sun peaking back at him, for he had almost lost hope of ever seeing her again.

“You’re awake,” a voice says softly. He shuts his eyes up tight at the sound. It’s slightly deeper than in his previous dreams, but it’s still Arya’s voice. “Hiding from me, are you? Years ago, a man I loved told me that the longer you hide, the sterner the penance will be. I have such a fearsome temper, Jon,” her voice cracks over his name and it tugs at his heart, “don’t make me wait any longer.”

He opens his eyes slowly, unwillingly as they find her. She’s so close to his bed, he wonders he did not notice her before. “Arya?” His voice is hoarse and groggy, but her eyes fill with tears at the sound of it. “Arya is that really you? You’re not a dream?” He feels five years old again, fearful of being caught sneaking sweets from the kitchens. If this isn’t real, if Arya isn’t here now…

“No, I’m not a dream,” she says, clutching his hand in both of her own, “I’m _here_. Right _here_.”

“I’ve missed you little sister,” he says. He wishes he could stop crying, his tears are clouding his vision, and the gods know the only thing he wants to do is stare at that face for the rest of time. He wants to see all the ways it’s changed and all the ways it hasn’t, he just wants Arya. It’s all he’s ever wanted.

“I’ve missed you too,” she sobs, and as if she cannot stand it any longer, she flings herself fully on to him. She clutches his sides almost painfully but he doesn’t mind. Her lips find his in a flurry and oh the pain was worth it, every damned thing in the world was worth it to have her kissing him like this now.

Minutes later, when they break apart from air, she gives him a shy smile. He laughs in the face of it. “I love you,” he says, watching warmth blossom over her face and in her eyes. It gets him drunker than any wine or ale he has ever tasted.

“I love you too,” she smiles sweetly, one that had always been reserved just for him. It makes him wish he were healed and whole already so that he could give her a proper hug, and a proper kiss. “Oh Jon, I tried so hard to get here in time, but the snows were so thick and the night never ended.”

“But you sent Nymeria to me,” he says, bringing a scarred hand up to her hair to muss it, “you saved me, love. You saved me.”

“Oh Jon,” she sighs again, eyes filling with tears once more, “ _you_ saved _me_. In more ways than you could ever know.”

“Tell me,” he says hoarsely. “I want to know everything.”

She makes no answer. Instead, she untangles her hands from his to pick up something from the ground. She lays it on the bed, taking his hands once more to grip the hilt of it together. It’s such a little, little thing, smaller than he even remembers. “Needle,” she says softly, eyes so full of love and happiness that he knows must be evident in his own as well.

“Needle,” he says back in answer. And this time, it doesn’t make him want to cry.

**Author's Note:**

> Couldn't get this out of my head when i ran across it on tumblr so I had to write something! Also, I added in a bit of the wolf pack with the War for the Dawn because I really, really wanted to see that in the show. Ok, back to writing Starks Will Come Again, hope you enjoy!


End file.
